Great British Bird Hide

I hate the RSPB.

You might think that is too strong a sentiment but no, it's true, I do hate the RSPB.

Every year, without fail, at the end of January they make me feel like a failure.  

I spend all year filling the bird feeders with a variety of seeds, nuts and worms.  I even put a daily meal worm on the table, which a robin comes and gets every morning.  There are a large variety of fat pigeons and collard doves that are permanently in my garden, much to the annoyance of the dog.  Starlings come and squabble over the feeders. Small tits eat all the fat balls and goldfinches flit through the apple tree, collecting some nigella seeds from the cast iron poppy.  Magpies, seagulls and crow all chatter from the neighbour's roof.  Occasionally, an adventurous sparrow leaves it's pyracathntha hedge colony from the front of the house and explores the delights of the back garden.

Then, on the weekend of the RSPBs big garden birdwatch, they all go into hiding.  I sit at the window with my binoculars, spotter books and handy tick sheet.  The window is open and I think I hear a Great Tit pumping up his bicycle before I start my hour's watching but then the world goes silent.  The birds know the game.  They refuse to be counted in my garden.  I sit for an hour, watching nothing. Not one feather moves; not one tweet is tweeted; not one seed is sucked.  Even the blackbird that can whistle the opening bars of the Poulenc flute sonata doesn't make an appearance.

I check the hashtag on Twitter.  Everyone else has birds.  Loads of them.

I hate the RSPB.